


Bustability

by Merlin Missy (mtgat)



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Gen, Humor, Ichabod Crane vs. the 18th Century, Put Upon Servants, Yuletide Treat, five things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:17:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2842706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtgat/pseuds/Merlin%20Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benjamin Franklin is the finest mind of the eighteenth century, according to himself, and he will accomplish great wonders if Ichabod Crane doesn't kill him first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bustability

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mithrigil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrigil/gifts).



> Much as on the show, any resemblance to actual historical figures or actual history is for the purposes of entertainment, and should not be taken as an accurate representation.

"Crane, come here."

"Yes, Franklin." Ichabod set down his book. He was a bit old to be apprenticed, but the opportunity was too great to pass up. He, a man with an education and prospects, nonetheless was bound to fetch and carry and assist as the Great Man bade. Benjamin Franklin! Genius and inventor! Ichabod couldn't contain the giddy thrill now that his first task was before him.

He appeared at Franklin's elbow. ("Do not call me 'Master,' Crane. All men are equals.") "What do you wish, sir?"

Franklin waved his hand. "Hand me that tool."

Ichabod turned and rooted through the messy bench until, past the rags and food remains, and a string-bound folio which appeared to have drawings of ladies in undress, he found the item Franklin wanted. The tool was of his own design: bent at one end and tapered to a slit, made for working in tight areas of his latest invention.

"Here," Ichabod said, excited to learn what Franklin was doing.

Without a thanks, Franklin took the tool, examined it critically, then placed it into his own ear. As Ichabod watched, mystified, he removed it and did the same with the other ear.

The possibilities exploded in Ichabod's mind. Metalworkers and smiths merged with genius such as stood before him to create broad-chested men of steel. Tanners and weavers could drape such a fierce skeleton in the trappings of humanity: skin and clothing to disguise the true nature, and a clockwork brain to top it all in a tin skull. Marvelous! The man before him was no mere man, but a genius thinking engine, revealing himself before Crane as he tuned the fine workings inside his head.

Why the metal men crafters had chosen a balding, flabby, middle-aged Quaker as their ideal was not Ichabod's to question. Perhaps such was only to further his disguise as human.

Franklin withdrew the tool. A dark brown clump of wax clung to the tip. "Ah, much better. That's been bothering me for hours." He handed the tool back to Ichabod. "Clean that, won't you, Crane?" He turned back to his own study.

Ichabod held out the tool between pinched fingers, all fantasies of artificial men dashed and disgusting.

"Yes, sir," he said, and carried the tool to the pump.

* * *

"Crane!" The shout came from the back garden. Ichabod set down his cleaning supplies, where he'd been trying to give this bloody stove a good polish, and he dashed out to see what his master required.

"Yes, sir?" He skidded to a halt, scuffing his shoes. He instantly turned his face away.

"Oh, go on, Crane. It's nothing you haven't seen before in your own bath."

He kept his eyes averted. "What do you require?"

"As it is, I need my dressing gown. I'll be entertaining tonight. Please fetch it from my wardrobe and give it a good airing. That's a good chap."

He returned to his writing, papers spread everywhere around him. There was no denying the immense intellect behind the words, yet Ichabod wondered how the readers of his great documents would feel knowing said inspired thoughts were set down whilst the genius holding the pen was also holding, well, another pen.

Good Christ.

Ichabod hurried to air out the dressing gown.

* * *

"Hold this, Crane," said Franklin.

By this time, Ichabod had learned his lesson. "What precisely is it?"

"I am performing an experiment based on my correspondence with Alessandro Volta. He's isolated methane gas, you know. The possibilities are endless."

Methane? Fascinating. A simple hydrocarbon, but theory and observation said the gas could have great power. "What can I do?"

Franklin held out a rod and indicated Ichabod should take hold. He did so, unsure of how this would work.

Franklin turned away, and did something Ichabod could not see. His hand tingled sharply, sending a buzzing down his arm and into his groin. His teeth rattled as he felt a strong urge to urinate, which he restrained barely in time. "Ah!" He couldn't let go.

After an age, although it could in reality have lasted no longer than two seconds, the charge stopped. Ichabod let loose his grasp, and massaged his poor hand with the other. He felt deeply uncomfortable around the bowels, and enraged everywhere else. Also somewhat roasted. "What in God's name were you thinking?"

"That the electrical fluid from the methane sparker would travel up the length of the metal rod and ground itself in the nearest possible line, through you." Franklin began scribbling on one of his papers. He waved Ichabod off with his free hand. "That will be all, Crane."

Ichabod stalked off in anger.

* * *

"Crane!"

Ichabod shuddered. He'd been burning his own candles to spend precious time alone writing up his own thoughts about their recent work. Franklin would publish his own scientific treatise, and Ichabod would post to the newspaper the sordid truth about the genius. Perhaps he should erase some of his expletives first.

"Crane!" The bellow came louder.

"Coming, sir."

He extinguished his candle and made his way to the front room. Franklin had set up his monstrosity of an Armonica. Ah. Music tonight. Wet fingers against the spinning glass produced a pleasing sound. They were all the rage back in London.

"Are you performing tonight, sir?"

"I'm improving. I'll need you to play as I tune."

This didn't sound so terrible. Ichabod sat in front of the great glass instrument. Franklin had already readied him a cup of water to dab his finger into as the wheel turned.

"Ready?" asked Franklin, crouching behind the instrument with his tools strewn at his feet.

Ichabod nodded and dipped his finger into the cup as he turned the wheel. The water was not fresh, he realized instantly. He began to play the first simple tune he'd learned, "Ah! vous dirais-je, Maman." 

"Replay those notes," Franklin instructed. Ichabod dipped his finger and repeated them.

"I should fetch fresh water if this will take some time. This has been sitting too long."

"No, it's fresh. The Armonica performs best with saliva, I've found."

Ichabod froze and looked into the cup. "This is saliva?"

"Yes. I've spent the last hour expectorating for you. Now, please play that again."

Gingerly, Ichabod dipped his unwilling finger again and played.

They tuned the instrument for the next two hours.

* * *

"Crane!"

There was no response. Benjamin Franklin, greatest mind of his age if he said so himself, rapped hard on the wall to Crane's small room with his cane. "Crane!" Inside the room, he would later find the very short, very direct letter informing him of Crane's permanent departure from his service.

Franklin turned to his friend Adams, who'd accompanied him home. "Sorry. He's been impossible lately."

"You are not the kindest master, Franklin. That poor man comes from a wealthy family. He probably hasn't done a day's labor in his life before now."

"All the more reason to teach him before it's too late."

Adams shrugged. "What were you going to show me?"

"It's a gift from Washington. A pewter ice cream pot, can you believe it? In a short hour or two, we can enjoy a delightful treat."

"Incredibly kind of the man." Adams poked Franklin. "Doesn't it aggravate your gout?"

"Too much, I'm afraid. I was going to let Crane have my share. Alas. You just cannot do something nice for some men."

* * *


End file.
